


The Wiles of a Woman

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Bad Flirting, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn has never been much for romance or attraction; but when Grima appears in Edoras for the first time, her heretofore latent romantic interests spring painfully to life. But while Grima seems to want her, he certainly doesn’t trust her; and nothing will convince him that her motives in this are pure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: (And finally, taking the “ask questions about my OTP” veeeeeery loosely in an I’m-actually-sort-of-prompting kind of way): Grima shows up at court and Eowyn is immediately all HOT DAMN WANT ME SOME OF THAT. And she’s never been shy about what she wants. But every time she tries to pursue Grima, he’s like, “Haha yeah, like you’d stoop so low. For shame, princess. What would your brother say?” So how does Eowyn go about getting her game on?)
> 
> So here it is: Grima turns up at Edoras, and Eowyn is ridiculously attracted to him for reasons she can’t explain and doesn’t care to explain, and she is never one to deny herself the things she wants. ;)

When Éowyn blossomed into womanhood, her interest in men did not seem to blossom with her. She might perhaps have mustered up some ounce of enthusiasm for romance if all the men she knew had not reminded her so very much of her brother and cousin – if they did not all seem so much the same. She was tired of their feats of strength and their patronizing attitude towards her swordplay; tired of hearing the same lines of poetry and silly love songs sung to her at every feast; tired of listening to endless boasts and stories about this orc or that warg they’d slain in battle. She had long ceased to be impressed by skill in battle alone; and while she loved her brother dearly, his friends all talked only of whoring and fighting and their horses, and rarely let her contribute anything of interest to their conversations.

How was she expected to be interested in men, when they never much bothered to be properly interested in her? She would rather grow old and turn aged crone, surrounded by her swords and horses and perhaps the occasional cat, than feign delight in yet another exaggerated tale of some man’s battle with a creature he had undoubtedly made up just to impress and terrify her.

Éowyn had all but sworn herself to a life of celibacy when Gríma son of Gálmód came to Edoras.

She met his voice before she ever met the man himself. His was not a loud voice, but it rang clear and insistent in the Golden Hall, echoing in the corridors just outside the throne room. He spoke each word with such intention, tasting it before letting it roll free of his tongue. His voice stopped her dead in her tracks as she made to bring a ledger to Ymma, the mistress of the larders and stores of Meduseld.

“My father expresses his deep regret that he could not attend you himself,” he was saying; but the words hardly mattered. Caught by curiosity and the strange spell his voice was weaving, Éowyn altered her path at once and slipped towards the throne room, the ledger sitting forgotten in her hand. “The wound he took was grievous indeed. We pray daily for his health. But he would not leave you wanting. He bade me bring you all that you required of him – details of the latest raids, and all the orcs took.”

When Éowyn rounded the corner, she paused, peering secretly from the shadows. There was a man kneeling before her uncle’s throne – a man with black hair. She inhaled sharply, unable to stop herself from staring. She had never seen a dark-haired man before. A Dunlending, perhaps? But he had mentioned his father, and the raids… if he was a Dunlending, he would never have come to Théoden with such information.

He looked up as Théoden withdrew the documents from his hands. He was pale, if a little red around the nose from a recent sunburn; and his eyes were the brightest blue Éowyn had ever seen. His face was all sharp angles and long planes of pale skin – a proud, long nose and cheekbones that jutted sharply forth beneath his flesh.

He was by no standard in Éowyn’s limited knowledge, beautiful; but she could not tear her eyes from him. She had never seen anyone who looked a thing like him, and the sheer novelty of him intrigued her.

Théoden, seated in his throne, was nigh impossible for Éowyn to see; but she could hear the shifting of parchment as he read over what the stranger had brought him, shifting in his throne to see it better. “These are well-kept records,” Théoden said. “Neatly kept and quite detailed. I had not known your father to be so thorough.”

The stranger ducked his head again, a polite, subservient bow. Éowyn found herself catching her breath, waiting for him to speak again. “He is not, my king,” the stranger said. “He asked me to keep the records for him. I have done my humble best to mark down every detail that may prove of importance.”

“You have done well, then,” said Théoden, sounding impressed. “Rarely have I seen records so meticulous. These will serve us well.”

The stranger looked up again, a small, thin smile on his pale lips; but then, somehow, his eyes seemed to find Éowyn in the shadows of the corridor, and his gaze locked on hers, intent and piercing. The breath went out of her, and she froze like a rabbit at the site of a predator, mouth falling open.

“Something the matter?” Théoden said; then he rose from his throne and turned to look, an expression of concern in his eyes. The expression faded into fondness at the sight of Éowyn; and he smiled at her, a kindly smile, beckoning her to come forth. “Éowyn,” he said. “What brings you to the hall so early?”

Oh lord, what could she say that would sound reasonable? “I – I was just bringing some of the ledgers to Ymma,” she said, trying to hide the flush in her cheeks as she came forward. “I did not wish to interrupt. I’m sorry I troubled you at all.”

“You are never a trouble, Éowyn,” Théoden said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders when she reached him. He turned back to Gríma, eyes still on Éowyn, his smile fond. “Gríma, this is my niece, Éowyn. Éowyn, Gríma son of Gálmód. His father has been assisting in keeping our borders safe from raiders. He was meant to come to Edoras, but he has been taken ill with a terrible wound. Gríma came in his place to deliver a message.”

_Gríma,_ Éowyn thought, turning the name over in her mind.  _Mask. Secret. Ugly. A cruel name, for his father to bestow upon him._ “I am sure we are all much obliged for your courage, sir,” Éowyn said, dropping a small curtsy.

“I suppose any man of Rohan would have done as much in my stead,” Gríma replied, bowing his head in turn. “But you are kind to say so.” He paused, raising his head once more and looking up into her eyes. His gaze was unwavering and unnerving, stopping her heart dead in its tracks. “The people speak fondly of you, my lady, even in the farthest reaches of Rohan,” he continued, unblinking. “I am given to understand that you have been training as a Shieldmaiden. Perhaps one day we shall see you on the borders for patrol, as your brother and cousin sometimes attend us?”

Éowyn glanced between her uncle and Gríma, uncertain if the man was mocking her. But there was no trace of mockery in his expression; if anything, he seemed intrigued, eyes flickering over her face and body and back again. Éowyn had the distinct sense that she was being stripped bare beneath his stare, layer after layer peeling back from her until she was left open and bare to his scrutiny. “Perhaps one day,” she said, very carefully. “My uncle has kept me busy at other pursuits in recent days; and there are many who would have me remain here in Edoras.”

A flicker of sympathy danced across Gríma’s face, just for a moment; then his expression was impassive once more, polite. A mask. “I have no doubt your people here would greatly regret your going,” he said. “You are much beloved.”

“They would have me believe that to be the reason, if they could,” Éowyn said. She was babbling now, saying too much; Théoden was staring at her in alarm, but nothing would stop her tripping tongue, not even her own internal screaming. Gríma was curious, and everything about his posture spoke of kind understanding, a welcoming of dark secrets and quiet inner thoughts never meant to be shared. “But truthfully they are threatened because I am a woman. The people say that my uncle forgot he was raising two boys and a girl, and thought himself the guardian of three boys; and only recently has he had cause to remember what I really am.”

“No one says that,” Théoden said, tightening his grip on her arm.

“Everyone says that,” Éowyn retorted, too sharply. Théoden cast her a reproachful glance, and she hung her head, abashed.

“You must be tired,” Théoden said, forcing a small smile. “There are a set of guest chambers in which you may rest; Éowyn can take you there, I’m sure.”

Éowyn had expected Gríma to turn to Théoden at that, but he did not; his eyes stayed with her, piercing to her core. He had not laughed, or looked uncomfortable, or shifted away when she had spoken; every last inch of him was focused on her. He had tilted his head a little to the side, as if a riddle had been posed to him and he could not find the answer. “I am much obliged, my lord,” he said, his eyes still on Éowyn. “The ride, I fear, is long and wearisome.”

Théoden released Éowyn, patting her lightly on the shoulder. “The guest chambers should have already been made ready,” he said. “You know where to find them. You don’t mind, do you? I will take the ledgers, if that will be simpler.”

Éowyn handed them over with some relief; Ymma was one of her least favorite people in the whole of Edoras, and she had particularly wanted to see her today. “Yes, thank you,” she said. She turned back to Gríma, her skin prickling when she met his eyes again. “If you’ll follow me?”

Gríma bowed, a sweeping gesture, and followed her as she gathered up her skirts and led him back into the sleeping quarters. He was silent as they walked off, but she could feel his stare, unnerving her further. “So,” she said, too brightly. “Where is it that you rode from?”

“The Westfold, my lady,” he said; “A settlement near the Isen.”

“That is a long journey indeed,” Éowyn said, slowing her pace so that she could walk beside him. She was not quite comfortable having him behind her; she wanted to look at him, to read his expression as they walked. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s wounds.”

“You are kind to say so,” Gríma said, glancing at her warily. “It is hoped that he will be well again soon, but things are still dangerous for him.”

“Then I will pray for his good health and safety,” Éowyn said. Somehow that did not seem enough. Gríma was still coldly polite, bearing all the formality of a visiting lord keeping to courtly traditions. She wished there was a way to express her curiosity about him politely; but the only thing she could think to do was to tell him something of herself, in the hopes that he would reciprocate. “My father was lost to a raiding party of orcs when I was a child,” she said, and hated herself almost immediately for it.

Gríma cast her a strange look, arching a brow.  _Oh lord, I have offended him._ “So I had heard,” Gríma said. “I am very sorry.”

“I was very young at the time,” Éowyn said, with a small shrug. “I hardly remember him, or it, truth be told.” The words were coming without any control now, confessions and dark memories she had not ever thought to speak of. “I remember my mother’s death more plainly; but that was only of sickness and despair. She let herself waste away over him. I tried to help her, but she would not listen to me, or pay me any heed. She stopped eating and laid in bed all the time. I think perhaps it was better for her to have died, if she could not withstand the grief.”

She had expected Gríma to look horrified at that last confession; but instead he merely looked intrigued. Some of the wariness had gone out of his eyes, and he was studying her with a faint but ever-present smile. “Life is often full of sorrow, I have found,” he said. “Some are better built to live with it than others.”

“I suppose.” Éowyn frowned. “But would you have given up, if there were two children left depending on you?”

Any of the wariness about him seemed to dissipate at that. “It is hard to say what any would do in such a situation, my lady,” he said, his voice gentle. “Some people are not made to live in this world alone. And some are selfish, and blind to anything but their own despair. Some people collapse under the weight of one sorrow, while others carry their tragedies with them in the quiet darkness of their hearts and let them build over time, pretending they do not exist until the weight becomes too great. Some people would call that strength; but it can be a weakness too, when the weight is too heavy to bear any longer.” He shrugged a little. “Perhaps your father was the one great sorrow your mother could not take; or perhaps he was the greatest sorrow among a collection of sorrows, the one that tipped the scale.”

Éowyn had not considered that before. “But if there is even one thing left to fight for,” she pressed, “Is it fair to give up, no matter how great the sorrow?”

“I doubt fairness has anything to do with it, my princess,” Gríma replied. “It is not about what is fair and what is right. The world is not a fair place; and people are not designed to think in terms of what is fair and just. People think in terms of what it is that hurts them most, or pleases them best. And people, above all, respond with feelings first and logic next; and if the emotions are too strong, they never come to any logic at all.”

Éowyn frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true,” she said. She tilted her head, examining him. “Do you think your father will survive?”

Something interesting happened then. Gríma had been studying her openly, but when she spoke of his father, everything about him seemed to close off again, a mask slipping into place over his face. It was an instant shift, so quick that the change could hardly be tracked with the naked eye; and Éowyn began to wonder if he’d ever really been open to her at all. “He has enough strength of will to do so,” Gríma said, his voice polite and restrained once more. “But the wound is very grievous, and he is old.”

Éowyn blushed, embarrassed by her question now. Ymma had always told her she was tactless. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must be worrying for him – I did not mean – ”

“Don’t apologize,” Gríma said. “He does not need my pity or my worry. So he tells me almost every day.”

The words were so harsh that Éowyn nearly drew back. The mask had slipped away again, and there was something like anger smoldering in Gríma’s eyes.

Well, whether intentionally or not, she had uncovered something about Gríma; but now she had no idea what to say to ease the anger from him. “Harsh men are bred on the empty plains of Rohan,” she said, uselessly. She hoped it might convey some sort of sympathy, but he seemed entirely unmoved.

Gríma smiled thinly. “So they say.”

They walked in silence for a moment; then Éowyn stopped before the door to the guest chambers, turning several shades of pink for no reason that she could fathom. “These will be your chambers while you’re here,” she said. “I hope they will be suitably comfortable.”

“I am sure they will be more than satisfactory,” Gríma said, looking up into her face. His gaze was sharp and piercing, and made Éowyn blush the darker. “Thank you for walking with me. It was – an experience.”

Éowyn bit her lip and shifted awkwardly. “If you should need anything – ”

He smiled. “I will ask for it.”

He went to bow to her, a short, brief bow where his gaze remained unbroken; but at that moment, Éomer rounded the corner, and seemed to stop in his tracks at the site of the guest. “Gríma?” he said, his voice alarmed.

Gríma stiffened at once, every muscle in his body tensing. Éowyn looked between her brother and her guest, startled at the anger already palpable between them. “Éomer,” Gríma said, turning to Éomer with a frosty smile. “What a…  _pleasant…_ surprise.”

“What are  _you_  doing here?” Éomer asked, taking a threatening step towards him.

“He’s here delivering the reports in his father’s stead,” Éowyn said, stepping up to stand beside Gríma. Her brother could be a great dumb ox sometimes, and she did not like the way he was looking at Gríma. “His father has been wounded.”

Éomer frowned. “I had thought Gálmód might send Horst, or Anláf,” he said. “Don’t tell me they’ve been wounded too.”

“They are busy manning the patrols,” Gríma said flatly. “Father thought it best for me to come.”

“Aye, to keep you out of the way, I suppose,” Éomer sneered. “How convenient.”

“Éomer!” Éowyn exclaimed, glaring at him. “There is no call for you to be rude.”

“You wouldn’t know, sweet sister,” Éomer replied, looking Gríma over disdainfully. “You have never been to settlement at the Isen, where orcs and Dunlendings are thick and it is a fight to survive every day. Men like this one, who scamper and hide whenever there is danger afoot, have no place in such a dangerous outpost.”

Gríma clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something in response; but Éowyn stepped in before he could. “Men who cannot hold their tongues and be courteous to guests have no place anywhere,” she retorted, stepping forward and facing her brother down. “You apologize for your behavior and then go on your way.”

Éomer’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I have said and done nothing worthy of apology,” he said. “You do not know this man as I do – you have no concept – ”

“Apparently I have more concept of his worth and talents than you do,” Éowyn said, folding her arms across her chest. “Those detailed records you’ve been using to plot your strategy and praising up and down the halls of Meduseld are his work. I had thought you would wish to thank him, actually, for his meticulous hand.”

Éomer looked as though he had swallowed something very hot, something that was burning all the way down to his stomach. “I – but – ”

Éowyn’s glare was unwavering and, apparently, unnerving. Éomer ground his teeth, and finally spat out an apology. “I – am sorry for my words,” he growled, “And grateful for the records you keep.”

Éowyn’s glare did not cease.

Éomer looked between her and Gríma for a moment; and as a final parting shot, he raised a finger and pointed at Gríma. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “She’s my sister, and she’ll have far better men than you.”

“Éomer – ” Éowyn started; but he raised his hands, turned on his heel, and left before she could say more.

Éowyn let out a breath and turned back to Gríma, biting her lip hard. “I’m sorry for him,” she said. “I take it you have some history.”

Gríma glanced at her, but there was something hunted about his expression now. He regarded her like a rabbit regards a fox, shrinking back from her when she made to hold out her hand. “Some,” he agreed, his voice guarded. “But it hardly matters. Thank you for seeing me to my chambers. You are free to go.”

Éowyn opened her mouth to protest, but he had already slunk back through the door, closing it in her face.

 

* * *

 

It had seemed at first that Gríma would only be staying for a few days before returning to his home village; but in the time that he remained at Edoras, Théoden developed a great fondness for him. They spoke for long hours, sometimes late into the night, regarding politics and strategy and philosophy. Théoden asked for Gríma’s opinion regarding the record-keeping in Meduseld, and Gríma had much to say on how it would best be improved. Ymma was in a rage for weeks about it, cursing about the _dirty-blooded half-breed._ Éowyn always corrected her, harshly and swiftly, when she spoke thus.

Éowyn did her best to be friendly to Gríma, going out of her way to bring him things, pausing to talk to him in the halls. Whenever she saw him alone at dinner, she made an effort to sit near him, trying to coax him into conversation. But since the incident with her brother, he seemed wary of her, and kept his answers brief and his mask of courtly politeness firmly in place.

It frustrated Éowyn to no end, for reasons she could not quite fathom. Never had she so desperately attempted to be friends with someone in her life. In the past, if someone had put her off so forcefully, she would have taken the hint and walked away. But there was something about Gríma that drew her to him. She could sense his loneliness and despair; and time and again, she thought back to their first conversation, of sorrows carried and sorrows hidden. One day, the weight of his despair would break him, if he did not let someone in; and Éowyn meant to be that someone, for better or worse.

She did not understand why she was so determined – not until Théoden announced that he meant to keep Gríma on at Edoras as his counsellor and adviser in all matters of state. Then rumors about Gríma began to truly fly. If there had been whisperings before, they were nothing compared to what the courtiers were saying now.

One particular whisper was brought to her attention by half the court, in so many forms that Éowyn began to believe in its veracity after a time. “It seems our errant counsellor is plagued with dreams,” one of her ladies had told her at a feast, casting a suspicious glare in Gríma’s direction. “Loud ones. Sometimes he cries out in the dead of night – the guards have overheard him. And sometimes…” She lowered her voice, wearing an expression of utter disgust. “Sometimes, it is your name upon his lips, my lady. Pathetic, isn’t it? You had best watch your step with him.”

“Must I?” Éowyn wondered aloud, staring too intently at him from across the room. He seemed to feel her eyes on him and looked towards her. For an instant their eyes locked, and Éowyn saw the tumult there, wanting and fear fighting a battle at his core. Then he looked away again, grabbing for his wine glass and taking a long, long drink.

The rumor of his dreams affected her more than she cared to admit. Soon she found herself plagued with similar dreams, brief, flickering visions of Gríma’s hands on her hips and his mouth pressed against her throat, tongue and teeth teasing until she nearly screamed. She awoke sometimes tangled in her own sheets, sweating and gasping; but if she ever called for him, no one ever told her.

At first she was embarrassed by the dreams, and dismissed them as bizarre fantasies, or perhaps a metaphorical indication of her desire for his approval. But whenever she saw him, heat surged in her veins, and a wanting unlike any she had ever known seared her from the inside out.

It was not just his approval she wanted. She wanted all of him, body and mind and soul. She wanted to know him in every sense of the word, intimately and always, as she had never wished to know anyone else. And the ache for him was growing.

Éowyn was not altogether accustomed to waiting for what she wanted. Over time she had learned that if she desired something, it was her duty to pursue it, fiercely and relentlessly, until it was hers. She had had to fight for her swordplay and her own horse; had had to fight for lessons to read and write; had had to fight for the freedom to ride whenever she chose. This, as far as she was concerned, was much the same. He was afraid, which she supposed she understood; but she would not sit idly by and wait for him to change his mind.

She would change it for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eowyn gets flirty in the only way she knows how, which is to babble and follow around her crush; and things become unpleasant for Grima.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the game at the beginning comes from a quick google search for Anglo-Saxon games; you can see the rules and suchlike here.
> 
> The story of Wulf son of Freca is a major part of Rohan’s historical legacy; I can’t help but feel that it should have been mentioned more often, as I’m sure the comparison between Wulf and Grima was made almost constantly in Rohan.

It started with a feast night, a celebration of a recent victory against the raiders, in which Gríma’s strategy had played no small part.

Éowyn, who normally did not bother to overdress for such occasions, and let her maids do whatever they wished with her hair and jewels, was meticulous in her choice of gown. She had been told that she looked particularly stunning in white, and so carefully chose a cream and gold gown inlaid with dark blue jewels at the belt. She had her handmaids carefully braid her hair, and did her utmost to look the courtly lady.

She was much disappointed, then, when she arrived at the feast and found that Gríma was not there. Théoden told her not to worry, that Gríma would make an appearance at some point in the evening; but Éowyn was not certain she believed him. Gríma did not seem to enjoy social occasions as much as the rest of the court. But then, why would he? Everyone avoided him, and those who did speak to him rarely spoke with any kindness. If she were Gríma, she wouldn’t have bothered to come, either.

So she sat and sulked and sipped at a goblet of mulled wine, trying to cheer herself with a game or two. She thought perhaps the time would go faster after a round of  _halatafl_ ; but Gríma still had not come, and the ladies who were playing with her wanted to dance.

She was nearly about to give up on him when she caught sight of him, ducking into the hall just out of the reach of the torchlight. It was a flash of silver that had caught her attention; he was wearing a black tunic akin to her uncle’s brown one, embroidered with silver and draped with a silver chain.

Éowyn was on her feet and across the hall in minutes, passing through and ignoring a group of rowdy soldiers who all tried to beg her for a dance in favor of reaching Gríma as quickly as possible. “Another time, perhaps,” she said to them, absently; and finally she found her way to her uncle’s table, where Gríma had just arrived.

Théoden was rising to clap Gríma on the shoulder when Éowyn approached, a little out of breath and flushed in the torchlight. Théoden caught sight of her and smiled. “I did say he would be here, didn’t I?” he said to her. At the words Gríma turned with a frown; catching sight of her, he stiffened at once, drawing in his breath in one sharp inhale. Éowyn beamed, for a moment certain that this was a sign she had been successful in her attempts to look courtly and adult. But Gríma did not smile, and only bowed respectfully to her.

“My lady,” he said; and then he was turning back to Théoden, as if Éowyn hardly mattered at all.

Annoyed, Éowyn dropped onto the bench beside him as he sat. Théoden glanced at her with an amused smile, but was soon distracted by a passing captain wishing to chat. Gríma looked as though he wanted to follow Théoden, but he reluctantly remained where he was, hardly glancing at Éowyn at all.

Even more irritated now, Éowyn folded her arms across her chest and cast him an imperious glance. “What kept you so long?”she asked. “Had you something more important to do than grace us with your presence?”

“My duties are all-encompassing and provide me little time for leisure, my lady,” Gríma replied, taking a cup of wine from a passing servant and downing it in a few hurried swallows. “Unlike some, I have not the time nor the inclination to waste the night drinking and whoring.”

Éowyn glanced at her cousin, who was currently balancing two serving girls on his lap, and her brother, who was busily describing his exploits on Rohan’s wild frontier to a herd of enraptured ladies. “Harsh words,” she said, turning back to Gríma with arched brows. “Dare I suggest you might be jealous?”

Gríma nearly spat out his final swallow of wine. “Jealous?” he repeated, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Hardly. I deal with enough whinging, clinging, empty-headed courtiers and servants on a day to day basis to last me a lifetime. Why bother wasting my time attempting to pursue them in the one time I’m finally free of them?”

The words rang with bitterness. Éowyn could almost picture the pile of sorrows in Gríma’s heart: the loneliness, the sense of rejection, the failure to belong.

Then again, had he  _truly_  belonged to this court, he would not have been half so interesting.

“You’re right,” Éowyn said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I feel much the same, truthfully.”

Gríma cast her an incredulous glance. Undeterred, Éowyn barreled forward, turning in order to be closer to him. “One gets tired of hearing the same ten boasts from men who all look and act the same after a time,” she said. “Leofric has told me no less than fourteen times about the time he slayed a warg when he was eighteen. Although the last time he told me the story, it was eight wargs. And he was twelve at the time.”

Something like a smile started to blossom, but Gríma bit down on it to hold it back. “I suppose you are meant to be impressed by the change,” he said.

“I am apparently meant to be impressed each time I hear the story, no matter how outlandish it gets,” Éowyn said sourly. “Ceneric has told me perhaps seven times about a scaly lake dragon he slew singlehandedly last year, somewhere near the Isen.”

Gríma snorted at that. “All the dragons in the world are already slain,” he said.

“Ah, but apparently, this is a  _lake_  dragon, which is different,” Éowyn said, derision dripping from her tone. “It does not breathe fire, but lives under the water, and looks more akin to a serpent than a dragon; only it’s somewhere between twenty and eighty feet long, depending on how impressive Ceneric wishes to be that evening.”

Gríma was definitely smiling a little. He attempted to hide it in a fresh goblet of wine, but too late; Éowyn had already seen it. “I find it hard to imagine a lake that would accommodate such a beast, especially anywhere near the Isen.”

“Well, if you doubt him, you are free to question him about it,” Éowyn said, smirking. “He claims he has irrefutable proof of the thing’s existence. He claims he keeps the head in a box in his chambers, but, conveniently, looking at it will turn you to stone. But he’ll happily show you the box, and a scale he kept from the beast. The scale is some kind of textured glass; it looks as though it has been worn away at by waves for a few years. More likely he found the bit of glass and made up a story to go along with it.”

“More likely,” Gríma agreed. He studied her curiously over the edge of the goblet. “Does anyone truly believe him?”

Éowyn shrugged. “It must work, for him to continue to use it,” she said. “He certainly never leaves the hall alone at night.”

Gríma tilted his head to the side. “And yet it does not seem to work on you. Why?”

Éowyn pondered that for a moment, tapping her fingers lightly on the table’s surface. “Perhaps because my uncle raised me among boys,” she said. “I’m used to their boasting. I used to do it too, when I was younger, and before I was told it was  _unladylike._ ” She frowned at the wood’s grain, smoothing it with her hand. “Strange, how things change when you grow older. As a child I learned that we were all the same. And now I have had to unlearn it piece by piece.”

Gríma shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Perhaps you should not unlearn it all entirely,” he said. “It seems to serve you well enough.”

Éowyn glanced up sharply. “Does it?” she said, smiling.

He turned several different shades of scarlet. “What I mean to say is – ”

Éowyn glanced around for a passing servant who might happen to have some wine; but there was no one near. Shrugging, she grabbed for Gríma’s glass instead, taking a long sip and then handing it back to him.

He stopped mid-sentence, staring at her as if she’d committed some kind of shocking sin. She frowned, puzzled, but realized at once that there were a few other courtiers staring at her as well. Was this a gesture that had some sort of overt meaning she did not understand? She had always grabbed for her uncle’s goblet or her cousin’s when thirsty; it was a familiar gesture, a friendly gesture, a sign of her affection.

Then again, perhaps that was the problem.

Gríma took the goblet back from her, his stare intent and heated as he turned the glass around and took a sip, directly where her mouth had been a moment before.

Heat surged forth in Éowyn’s veins at the gesture, forceful and hungry and reaching every inch of her. _Oh,_ she thought, turning pink.  _Oh, I see._

Gríma set the goblet down with practiced grace, looking away from her and tracing a path around the goblet’s stem with his fingers. He had the most beautiful hands, Éowyn thought, mesmerized. He had exceptionally long fingers, pale and slender and perfect and oh, lord, she wanted them as she had not ever wanted any part of a man before. “What, precisely, do you think you are playing at, sweet princess?” Gríma said, his voice low and heavy with meaning. The way he spoke  _sweet princess_  made her shiver, made the hair on her arms stand on end beneath her sleeves.

She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly very, very dry. “I play at nothing.”

“Don’t you just.” Gríma turned back to her, his eyes ice-cold and piercing. Her gut clenched tightly, but she did not draw back,  _would not_ draw back. Let him stare at her like that all he wanted. Let him strip her bare and see to the heart of her – she wanted him to. “All this kindness to the dirty-blooded half-breed… don’t you think it will bring you trouble, to act so familiar with me? _Whatever_  shall your poor brother say?”

Éowyn clenched her teeth, fingers curling into a fist. “Why should what my brother says dictate anything I do?” she replied haughtily, leaning forward. “I make my own fate.”

Now it was Gríma’s turn to swallow. His fingers curled and tightened on the edge of the table; Éowyn smirked at the gesture. Somehow, unintentionally, she was getting to him. “You would never dare stoop so low,” he said. “Half the court would disown you; and the other half would kill me.”

Éowyn laughed. “You sorely overestimate the court’s sway on my actions if you think that concerns me.”

“Perhaps it  _should_  concern you,” Gríma snapped. “You are treading dangerous ground, princess; and if your reasons for doing so are pure, then I’m full-blooded Rohirrim.”

Éowyn sat back, staring at him in wounded shock. “What reason do you think I have, exactly?” she asked. “Have I offended you in some form? Have I said or done something to anger you? It was not my intent, if I did – ”

Gríma glowered at her, leaning closer to her to glare into her face. “Oh, you are an impressive actress indeed, princess,” he said. “But I have played this game before, and I will not do it again.”

He turned and pushed himself free of the bench, rising and marching for the door. Éowyn thought, for a moment, that she had best let him walk away; but she felt as though she had done something horribly wrong, and whatever it was, she wanted to make amends. She leapt to her feet and started to run after him, her skirts in her hand; but then Théodred was there, taking hold of her arm and gently guiding her in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” he hissed at her, pulling her into a dark corner.

She wrenched her arm free of his grip, glaring at him. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she said.

“You have made it my business by acting so foolishly in the presence of the court,” he retorted, grabbing for her arm again. “What do you think you’re doing, talking with him like that? You can’t possibly be serious, can you?”

Éowyn folded her arms across her chest. “You have no say in who I choose to pursue,” she spat.

He stared at her as though she’d hit him the face with a wooden plank. “You cannot be serious,” he said. “ _Him_? Out of all of the riders and all of the honorable men here,  _him_?”

Éowyn lifted her chin. “Is there a problem?”

“Problem?” Théodred exploded. “Problem? We cannot have a Dunlending so close to the throne! Do you not remember your history, cousin? Wulf, son of Freca, and his reign of terror?”

Éowyn laughed derisively. “Grima is not Wulf,” she said.

“They were both of mixed blood,” Théodred insisted. “They both used any means necessary to get close to the throne. Did they never tell you that Freca wished to marry Wulf to Helm Hammerhand’s daughter, and in this way ensure his bloodline sat upon the throne? Our blood would be sullied even to this day, if such a union had been made. Our land would have perished under Wulf’s reign.”

“Grima is not Wulf!” Éowyn repeated angrily. “How can you even think to say such things? Two hundred years and more have passed since Wulf ruled; and moreover, it is not Gríma pursuing me, as you must think Freca pursued a royal marriage. It is I pursuing him.”

Théodred was aghast. He sputtered for a few moments before finally shouting, “You will bring ruin on us all!”

The court fell silent almost at once. Éowyn ground her teeth, but refused to look away or show any shame. Théodred stood stock still, closing his eyes and running a hand over his mouth. “Éowyn, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I did not mean to shout – I meant only that – ”

“You meant exactly what you said,” Éowyn said coldly. “And until you have a more lenient and educated opinion on the matter, you may keep your thoughts and lodge them in your own throat for all I care.”

Théodred seemed as though he would say more, but Éowyn would have none of it. She turned and fled the hall, not even stopping for her uncle when he called her name. She ran until she found her chambers and slammed the door closed, barring it and praying no one else would trouble her for a time.

Perhaps Gríma was right. Perhaps she was stupid to pursue him like this. Perhaps she needed to think more clearly on the subject.

She tore off her dress and jewels, crawled into bed, and hid under her furs until sleep took her.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke the next morning, she felt considerably refreshed. The incidents of the night previous came back to her in a rush, but sleep had strengthened her resolve. Théodred had been apologetic later; and he would grow used to the idea in time. Gríma would prove himself to be a better man than either Théodred or Éomer assumed; and then how could they begrudge her what she wanted?

Théodred’s response had also given her insight into why Gríma must be so reluctant. He had known that he was perceived as some reincarnation of the long-dead Wulf, with the same ugly intentions and the same inability to rule well. Truthfully, the comparison had never crossed Éowyn’s mind; but then, she had never valued him or judged him only by his Dunlendish blood. She would have to prove to him that this was so, or else he would always be afraid of her, and everyone else in the court.

By the time her handmaids arrived to help her dress, Éowyn was feeling much more hopeful about things. And if her handmaids were regarding her with strange, pinched expressions, what did it matter? They too would have their minds changed in time.

Finally, one of them spoke as she began to lace up Éowyn’s dress, hesitantly. “My lady, it is being said around the court – that is to say that – ”

“I don’t care what is being said around the court,” Éowyn said, brushing whatever rumor the handmaid might have heard aside. “It is unimportant.”

“Oh, but it isn’t,” the handmaid insisted, tying the final knot and coming to sit before Éowyn. “It’s just – well, the king’s new counsellor – he’s been hurt.”

Éowyn turned towards her sharply, panic flooding her veins. “Hurt,” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

The handmaid swallowed hard. “Beaten, my lady,” she said. “As he was returning to his chambers last night from his study. Your uncle is with him now.”

Éowyn was on her feet and to the door in a flurry of skirts. “Where?” she demanded.

“His chambers,” the handmaid said. “But my lady, it may be best if you don’t – ”

Too late; Éowyn was already gone, slamming the door behind her as she went.

 

* * *

 

When she threw open the door to Gríma’s room, Théoden was sitting beside him on the bed, wearing a dire expression. He looked up and smiled softly when he spotted Éowyn. “Good morning, niece,” he said. “I take it you’ve heard – ”

Gríma looked up at her, and Éowyn’s heart stopped.

Someone had punched him several times in the face. He had a black eye and a broken nose, and his face was puffy and swollen. Worse still, there was a splint on his right arm, packed with lichen and held close to his body with a white cloth tied around his neck.

He bowed his head and kept it lowered. “My lady,” he said, very quietly.

Everything inside Éowyn hurt. Her heart ached for what had been done to Gríma. She wanted to touch him, wanted to soothe away every last hurt on his body, and simultaneously wanted to hurt whoever had done this to him. The anger in her won out first. “Who?” she said, her voice low and angry. “Who did this?”

Gríma kept his head lowered. Théoden would not look at her. “The responsible parties are being punished.”

“Are they?” Éowyn said, her voice rising. “Are you certain? What is your idea of punishment for this? If you treat this incident lightly they will do it again. They will do it again and you know it!”

“It is not being taken lightly, Éowyn,” Théoden said, casting her a stern glare. “They are being punished as they deserve.”

“That I very much doubt,” Éowyn snarled, glaring fiercely into her uncle’s face. “I will take them both apart myself if you will not do it – ”

“Théodred was not among the attackers, Éowyn,” Théoden said. “And neither was Éomer.”

Éowyn froze, open-mouthed. “Then – who – ?”

Théoden rose and came to stand before Éowyn, gently cupping her face in his hands. “They are being dealt with,” he said. “I promise you. And happy as I would be to let you deal with them as you saw fit, it is not your duty to punish them; it is mine.”

Éowyn tried to swallow her rage, drawing in a deep breath and forcing herself to nod. “I understand.”

Théoden released her and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll leave you, for now,” he said to Gríma. “Perhaps, while your arm is healing, you might consider having Éowyn help you with keeping the ledgers and other assorted records.”

Gríma raised his head and glanced at her. “Are you sure that’s wise, my lord?” he said. “After – ”

“I am certain Éowyn will be of the most help to you,” Théoden said gently. “And be assured I will not allow this to happen again. I will not tolerate it.”

Gríma winced in pain. “You are kind, my liege.”

“I am just,” Théoden said. “They are not always the same thing.” He nodded to Gríma, and lightly rubbed Éowyn’s shoulder before letting go and slipping out the door.

As soon as the door was closed, Éowyn all but threw herself onto the bed beside Gríma, laying her hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “I’m sorry they did this to you – I should have listened – I’m so  _stupid_ sometimes – I never thought – ”

Gríma drew his hand out from under hers, laying it instead on his lap. “Did you ask them to do this?” he asked, his voice flat and dead.

Éowyn drew back in horror. “No!” she cried, staring at him in horror. “How could you even think – ”

“They did this for you,” Gríma said, in the same flat, dead tone. “They told me over and over again that this was for daring to think myself worthy of you. I don’t, you know. I would never presume to think that.”

Éowyn opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She felt a sick, gut-clenching anger deep within her at the men who had done this, whoever they might be. And she was angry, too, that Gríma would ever speak of himself in such low terms, as if he was nothing and deserved nothing. “I think it is for me to decide who is worthy of me and who is not,” she said at last.

Gríma smiled bitterly, wincing afterward. “Is it?” he said. “Everyone seems to think it is their opinion that matters, and not yours.”

“They are wrong,” Éowyn said firmly, inching closer. “They were wrong when they beat you; they were wrong when they said those things to you; and they will continue to be wrong if they continue to protest this day forward.”

Gríma did not say anything for a moment. When he spoke again he sounded tired, as if the battle the night previous had aged him a hundred years. “Why are you doing this?” he said. “Why do you insist on playing my friend and trying to woo me when your only intent is to hurt me?”

Anger surged in Éowyn once more, searing her from the inside out. “You can’t possibly think I would really send those men after you,” she said. “Who were they? Were they men who I am close to? If I wanted you beaten or killed, why would I not send my brother and my cousin?”

Gríma sighed wearily. “I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

“I would, had it been my intent to hurt you,” Éowyn said. “But it was not, and never will be.”

He seemed ready to retort, but as he gathered himself to reply he winced and crumpled in on himself again, clenching his teeth against the pain in his arm. Éowyn noticed that his lip had split, too, and was bleeding freely. She leapt to her feet and began to rummage around the room; finally she found a handkerchief, fresh and unused, and came to kneel in front of him, gently touching it to his lip. He jerked away at first, startled; but Éowyn gently raised a hand, palm open and facing him, to show she did not mean to hurt him. “Easy,” she murmured, as if talking to a skittish horse. “You’re bleeding. Let me help you. Let me help you.”

He still was looking at her like a frightened wild dog, but he did not scamper away this time when she laid the handkerchief against his lip; and after a moment, he closed his eyes, leaning just a little towards her, as if he could smell her and taste her through the fabric of the handkerchief.

Éowyn pulled back and moved slowly for the basin of water at his bedside, dipping the handkerchief inside and returning to him to dab at the wounds on his face. She kept her movements gentle then, too, slow and tender and easy, stopping for a moment when he would wince and pull away. “There,” she soothed, as he slowly began to relax under her touch. “There. Better?”

He swallowed. “A little.”

She smiled and continued to dab at the blood and cuts on his face, going cautiously around his nose. “If you do not want me help you with the ledgers, I will not,” she said. “If you fear it will bring another attack, I will not put you in harm’s way. But please never think that this thing was done because I asked it. Men will be angry for whatever reasons they choose; but they are not my reasons, even if they give them in my name.”

Gríma’s fingers curled tightly on the edge of the bed. “This is not the first time this has happened to me, you know,” he said.

Éowyn frowned. “The beating?”

“No. This.” He motioned to her with his good hand. “There was a woman in a nearby village – one of the settlements near the Adorn. I was with my father, talking with villagers about the raids and how many of their herds had been lost. She – she played at flirting with me, only to laugh when I was beaten over and over again by the other men in her village.” He stared hard at her from the bruised plane of his skin, eyes cold and wary. “Why should you be any different?”

Éowyn stared back at him for a moment, unsure what to say in response. How could anyone be so cruel? “I cannot even fathom the mind of someone who would do such a thing,” she said at last. “I cannot, and will not, because the very thought of it angers me. But as to your last remark, I can say only this: this woman and I are not one and the same. We have not the same upbringing nor the same motives; and I daresay neither of us look anything alike. So I pose to you this question instead: Why should I be the same?”

He did not seem to have an answer to that; but he also did not seem capable of believing her even so. He waved her hand away and rose, hobbling across the room to where a healer had left him a drink. “I can think of no one else who will assist me willingly or kindly,” he said, taking a long, slow drink from the glass. “And so I would be… grateful… to have you assist me. But you may ask no more of me. It will only end in disaster for either me, or you, or both of us. Is that understood?”

Éowyn clenched her jaw, but nodded. “For the moment,” she said, rising to her feet, “It is understood.”

“Not for the moment,” Gríma said, turning to her irritably. “For the rest of my days remaining here.”

Éowyn eyed him steadily. “For the moment,” she repeated, dropping a curtsy and walking out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grima finally stops denying what he feels, and an unwary guard gets in the way of what would have been an otherwise incredibly intense tryst. Still, the show must go on.

For the next several months, Éowyn was Gríma’s constant companion.

He did not seem to enjoy it much, outwardly. She followed him like a puppy, chattering happily away about swordplay, or a new song she’d learned, or something ridiculous that had happened at her sewing circle. He usually only responded with polite, carefully crafted phrases or noncommittal grunts, but sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.

It was the smile that drove her to continue. She might have given up otherwise, but she began to see it more and more frequently when he thought she wasn’t looking. And there were other gestures too, tender things he thought were his secrets and his alone. Sometimes, when he thought she was busy pulling out a ledger from his shelf, or sharpening a fresh quill, he would run the fingers of his good hand over the parchment she had touched, delicately, as if it was her skin beneath his hands. She saw that, too, and it gave her cause to hope.

There were days when it was very cold in his study. Her hands would turn to ice and she would struggle to write the words that he was dictating. On those days he took to bringing her a mug of hot tea and insist it was the servants who had sent him with it. But Éowyn, being who she was, went to the kitchen to thank the servants, and was told it was he who had demanded it for her.

Some days, when he was feeling especially generous, he left her mugs of hot chocolate from Far Harad. She had no idea how he’d gotten it, and hadn’t known what it was the first time the mug of thick, dark liquid had been left for her; but from the first taste she was in love with it, from its texture to its warm sweetness on her tongue.

She was never completely certain what marked a hot chocolate day instead of a tea day. Sometimes the day was merely especially cold; and in that case, he would also leave her a cloak, a special one lined in dark black fur that he told her he never wore. Sometimes he sent a servant to her with a cup before bed; and those were the days when she had said something to make him laugh, breaking his carefully cultivated composure. And on some days, she thought it must have been something small – a change in the way she wore her hair, or a light touch of her fingers across the back of his hand.

Some days it was a gift given in return for her kindness, for she spoke often in defense of him to other courtiers; and when word reached him, as it inevitably did, a mug of the chocolate always appeared, this time spiced with cinnamon and something else, heating her down to her very bones.

But none of these gifts were given in the open; and no matter what she did, he remained closed off to her, a door barred, barricaded, and sealed, with the key tossed to the sea.

She was not certain why he did not trust her, not for a long time. But towards the end of her time with him, she soon came to find out.

 

* * *

 

Éowyn was not meant to see Gríma that particular night. He had no writing to be done, and anyway there was a feast to prepare for the next evening, an occasion to celebrate the return of Éowyn’s brother and cousin from a recent patrol.

Éowyn had only wanted to stop by Gríma’s study quickly, to ask if he would plan to attend and perhaps inquire what color he would be wearing. Matching colors were hardly subtle, but Éowyn had never been much for subtlety; and anyway, with her time with Gríma coming to a close, she wanted to make it very clear to him that she did not care what anyone thought or said of her – it was he who mattered, and not the court.

She had just rounded the corner when she spotted her brother and Gríma – Gríma pressed flat against the wall, Éomer with a knife dangling in his hand.

“Word has reached me that you have been working to seduce my sister, snake,” Éomer was saying, glaring unrelenting into Gríma’s eyes.

Gríma flinched under his stare. “I have done no such thing,” he said. “Théoden King asked me to take her on – it was of his design that – ”

“My uncle has fallen to your influence,” Éomer spat, cutting him off. The knife was glittering in the torchlight, an ever-present threat. “Everyone in Edoras says that it is so. You whisper poison words to him and bend him to your will; and you would do the same to my sister if you could. Do you deny it?”

“Yes!” Gríma said, voice cracking. “I have not laid a hand on her – ”

“But you want to,” Éomer said. “And if you have your way, you will.” Éomer leaned in close, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Neither my cousin nor I will tolerate you in our house,” he said. “Éowyn is the daughter of kings, and will have a king for a husband. You are not worthy to even think of laying hands on her. Her blood is Eorl’s; and you? You bear the blood of heathen sorcerers in your veins, black and vile as an orc’s; and we will not stand to see you sully our house. Am I understood?”

Gríma clenched his teeth, fingers curling into fists. “Perfectly,” he said, his voice shaking with his effort to control it.

Éomer stepped back and released him, sheathing his dagger. He nodded once, and then turned towards Éowyn and started down the hall towards her. Gríma slid away from the wall, releasing a shaky breath; but he stiffened again when Éomer drew to a halt at the sight of Éowyn.

“There you are!” Éomer exclaimed, smiling broadly and opening his arms to her. “I have been looking everywhere for you! Would you not greet your brother on his return?”

Éowyn folded her arms across her chest and refused to step into the offered embrace. “I do not know that he deserves a greeting, if this is how he behaves when he returns home,” she said.

Éomer dropped his arms, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Éowyn said, her voice low and angry. “You shame the house of Eorl and me with your behavior.”

Éomer stared at her as though she had slapped him. “I am only trying to protect you from those who would bring you harm,” he said, pointing back to Gríma.

“No,” Éowyn said, jaw clenched tight. “You are lashing out at a man who unnerves you, without reason and without sense. Are you an animal now, to attack when you feel unmanned and threatened?”

“Unmanned?” Éomer exclaimed. “You have truly lost your senses if you think – ”

“Be silent.” Éowyn’s voice did not rise or drop in pitch; but there was such force behind the words that Éomer was quiet at once, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “You do not have the right to speak on my behalf,” she said. “You are my brother, but you are not my keeper; and you do not get to decide who I spend my time with, or give my heart to. Am I understood?”

Éomer started to protest, but Éowyn held up a hand, glaring. “ _Am I understood?_ ”

He gritted his teeth, drawing in a sharp, angry breath; but he nodded, once, and then pushed past her, storming towards the hall.

When he was gone, Éowyn let out a breath, tension seeping out of her, and hurried to Gríma, gathering her skirts in her hand. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked, reaching out to touch his face. He flinched away like an injured animal.

“No,” he said, very quietly. “And I thank you for your defense. But I think perhaps it would be best if you were to go now.”

Éowyn dropped her hand, eyes wide and hurt. “I won’t let him trouble you again, I swear it,” she said, taking a small step forward. He drew back once more, two steps to her one, shoulders hunched and turned away from her. He would not even look at her.

“Thank you, but it would still be advisable for you to go,” he said, a little more forcefully this time. He nodded once, reassuring himself. “Yes, I think that you should go. My arm is mostly healed, and much of the writing I can do on my own now.”

Éowyn stared. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, my uncle insisted – I am to have a few weeks more with you and then – ”

“That won’t be necessary.” Gríma drew himself up and turned back to her; but he was still unable to look directly at her for more than a brief moment. “I will manage on my own from here. But thank you for your due diligence.”

“I do not do this out of diligence,” she said. He closed his eyes, fingers curling into fists, and started to turn away. “No, don’t,” Éowyn said, hurrying after him. “You cannot mean this. My brother is overprotective and stupid and yes, I suppose, sometimes violent, but I will put him right – you cannot possibly – ”

“Cannot what?” Gríma snapped, turning back to her with naked rage burning in his eyes. Éowyn fell back at once with a small gasp. She had never seen him like this – open and bared before her, all his fears and doubts and anger written in every corner of his face. “I am only doing what is necessary to protect myself, from both your brother  _and_ from you. So gather yourself and go, before this grows any uglier.”

Despite the tirade, Éowyn refused to move. “You cannot mean this,” she said. “You cannot. You are afraid, I understand that. But you do not want this. I know you.”

“Do you?” Gríma sneered. “I barely speak to you at all. How do you presume to know me, then, when you can hardly tear a word from me?”

Éowyn lifted her chin. “Oh, make no mistake – I know you, though perhaps, as you say, not by your words.” She looked into his face, imploring him to listen. “I know a man who brings me tea and pretends it is the servants’ doing. I know a man who gave me a cloak to keep me warm and who sometimes stops to touch the parchment I have touched.”

His eyes widened, and he exhaled sharply at that. She had him. Triumphantly, she hurried towards him again, stopping perhaps two feet away. “I know a man who gives me chocolate in secret on special occasions,” she continued, relentless. “You think you hide your secrets, my lord, but you have no real secrets from me. I have seen you and come to know you despite yourself; and I know this is not what you hoped for.”

“What does it matter what I hoped for, when everything on which I base my hopes is naught but phantom and shadow?” he burst out, throwing out his hand.

Éowyn shook her head again, vehemently. “How can you say such a thing?”

He laughed bitterly. “What would you have me say, my lady?” he asked, taking a step towards her. His eyes shone with a fierce light, angry and aching. “That I trust you? I do not. You and yours have made it clear from the beginning that I was not welcome here.”

“Me and mine?” Éowyn repeated, refusing to back down. She dared to take a step closer instead of drawing back as he’d wanted; she watched as his breath hitched, a sharp inhale that caught and held somewhere in his throat. It was the smallest gesture, but it told her more plainly than any words that he wanted her. The tension in his shoulders and in the clenching of his jaw spoke of incredible restraint; it was taking all of his will not to step forward and claim her.  _I am here for the taking,_ she wanted to scream.  _So take me, and have done_. “What exactly have I done to indicate my supposed dislike? Please, enlighten me. I had thought to have shown you every kindness in the world, but perhaps you know my intentions better than I.”

“Save your sass for your brother, princess,” Gríma snarled, stepping forward again. He was close enough to kiss, the heat of him real and pressing against the heavy weight of her gown. “He shall surely deal with it better and more swiftly than I.”

“My brother does not appreciate sass,” Éowyn replied. He was so very close. Her heart pounded hard against her ribcage, every nerve screaming with frustration. “And besides, his most witty retort holds nothing on what you can do.”

Gríma sneered again at that. “And now you try for flattery,” he said. “How desperate are you, precisely, to see me killed at your brother’s hand? The instant I lay hands on you, he will have me flayed alive.”

Well, she could not deny he had reason to fear Éomer now; but to implicate her? “Do you really still think that that is what I intend?” she said. “Can you still believe, after everything I’ve done for you, that I still work under my brother’s intentions? It seems an ineffectual plan, to throw a girl with no experience and no grace at a man as wary and suspicious as you.”

“Ineffectual?” Gríma sputtered, the rage in his eyes almost hilarious to her now. “Apparently not so ineffectual as you would think – ”

He stopped, choking on the words, eyes bulging. Éowyn smirked triumphantly, and took one more step. She might as well have been pressed against him, she was so torturously close. He gasped at once, his breathing hitching at her nearness. “No?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “And here I had been told I was no good as a seductress.”

“You are not,” Gríma said; but it was hard to be offended when his breath was still catching in his throat. “You have none of the coyness of a practiced flirt, and none of the poise; the banter is unknown to you, it would seem. You are graceless at best and lacking in all subtlety at worst; you have no guile and you cannot play the game. You draw the attention of anyone around you in the worst possible way, and you make no secret of your wants, offending every last person who might happen to overhear you. And you cannot even be bothered to pretend to be ashamed. In fact, I think what the court finds most offensive is not even that you have chosen to pursue me; it is your apparent belief that you have every right to feel how you feel and no desire to apologize for it.”

Éowyn arched both brows. “That was a surprisingly long list of my faults,” she said, a little wounded.

His eyes flicked over her face, once, tracing a path from cheek to throat. “I never called them faults, sweet princess.”

She smiled at that, biting the corner of her lip as the smile spread. At the gesture Gríma gave a small growl, deep in the back of his throat, still tensed, still refusing to back down. “I would never consider them faults,” he continued, “If I believed them to be real; but I do not. You are so blatant in everything you do, so artless, so completely without any understanding of the court’s perception of you and of what your behavior ought to be, that I must assume your boldness itself is the charade – that you are trying to draw attention to yourself, and to me.”

Éowyn heaved a sigh, running a hand over her eyes. “You are impossible, Gríma,” she said through gritted teeth, looking back at him in exasperation. “You are completely, utterly impossible. Do you know that?”

Gríma bit down on a smile. “I have been told as much.” The smile faded at once. “And perhaps it has saved me from disaster.”

“It has saved you from nothing!” Éowyn exclaimed. She had the urge to stomp her foot like a child, but resisted, clenching her fists instead. “Why do you insist on believing that I despise you and wish to bring you harm, when nothing I have ever said or done would indicate as much?”

Gríma stared at her as if she was insane; as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “No one is kind to me unless they want something from me,” he said. “ _No one._ ” He frowned a little. “Only… I confess, I am not certain what it is you want.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Éowyn ceased to be angry. Instead, a swelling sadness filled her, an aching sorrow that wrenched at her heart and twisted until it broke. Éowyn was not given to tears, but something like them settled in her throat. Impulsively, she cupped his face between her hands and finally closed the gap, pressing her mouth to his. He gasped against her lips, and made some feeble effort to step back; but the effort had no heart behind it.

When Éowyn pulled back, he was looking at her as if she was not real, as if she was some strange figment that would disappear at any moment if he even dared to blink. And he  _still_  did not believe her. He wanted to; there was a war unfolding right before her eyes, a terrible tug-of-war across his shifting features. He wanted to believe her, but experience told him he could not; and he was a wary man at best, given to mistrust and fear.

Never had her words been so important. She chose her next ones carefully, and prayed that they would reach him. “I am not just anyone, my lord,” she said, very softly. “I want nothing from you but yourself; and if I am artless about it, it is because I do not know how else to be. You’re right in that, at least. I do not know how to play the game. Truth be told, I did not think of it as a game at all.”

The war was still raging in Gríma’s eyes, more fiercely than before; but Éowyn thought perhaps that she was winning. “If, indeed, all of that has not been a very impressive charade,” he said, his voice trembling as he spoke, “You are easily the poorest courtly lady in all the lands of Middle Earth.”

Éowyn laughed at that, a bright burst of startled laughter. “So Ymma has told me, more than once,” she said. “It’s as I said when I first met you – my uncle thought he was raising three boys instead of two.”

“So it would seem.” He was staring at her with a certain kind of wonder. He lifted his fingers to her face, slowly, and stroked her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch. “Still,” he murmured, “I cannot help but feel you will destroy me, whether by your intention or another’s…”

She stepped forward and silenced him with another kiss, harder and fiercer this time. At this last gesture he finally seemed to give way to her; he caught her around the waist and pulled her flush against him, nearly lifting her off the floor with the force of his tug. She scrambled to keep hold of him, tightening her grip around his neck. At this he kicked open the door to his study and half-dragged, half-carried her in, slamming the door closed with another kick.

He broke the kiss long enough to ask, “Wait – are you certain this is what you want? Are you sure – ”

“Yes,” she said, and caught his mouth again, swallowing whatever words he’d meant to say. He whimpered against her mouth and swept her up again with a growl, carrying her to his desk. He set her carefully onto the polished wood, moving to kiss along her jaw. When she was settled he tugged at the laces at the back of her dress, loosening the constricting gown. Éowyn in turn shoved his tunic out of the way and groped for the laces of his breeches, gasping for breath.

The laces were impossible, frustrating. She wanted to rip them away from him. She had never believed her friends when they had spoken of this level of  _need_ ; but lord, she needed him, wanted him, had to have him inside her. His mouth was hot against her neck as he kissed his way to her collarbone, ripping her gown free of her shoulder, letting it slide down over her breast. His teeth scraped against her skin and Éowyn cried out, a small flutter of a cry; and at the same time the knot in the laces came undone in her hand. She tugged mightily, smiling triumphantly –

And then there was a knock at the door.

Gríma pushed her off as if she had burned him, gasping for breath. Éowyn yanked her dress back into place, frantically trying to straighten her hair – but what use would that be, when someone was coming? She could lie, and say that she had come to see him on business; but given her past behavior, no one would believe her. And while she was not ashamed of what she wanted from Gríma, there would be hell to pay if the entire court knew without a doubt they’d been together.

Gríma pushed his chair away from his desk and motioned for her to slide beneath it. She did so, ducking at once beneath the table, grateful for the solid wall of wood for the first time. “Come in,” Gríma said, dropping into the chair and pushing it in.

Someone in armor, someone Éowyn could not see, entered the chamber. “Just dropping by to bring you the nightly watch news, my lord,” came Hama’s voice, echoing around the small chamber.

“Ah,” Gríma said, his fingers curling on the arm of his chair. “I hadn’t realized it was that time of the night yet. Is everything well?”

“Well enough,” Hama said. “Though there are a few things I noticed as I walked that need to be repaired. You may wish to take some notes.”

“I’m sure they are things that can be remembered for the morning,” Gríma said, his voice holding no small amount of irritation. “I am in the midst of – ”

“They’re very important details, sir,” Hama pressed. “And what’s more, I’ve noticed a few of the guards sleeping on duty. I will need them punished and replaced. Those names at least and a report on that you must take down for the king.”

Gríma heaved a sigh, tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Yes, yes, I suppose,” he growled, leaning over and fumbling for a quill. Éowyn made a face at him from under the desk. He cast her a look of righteous indignation and lightly kicked her knee with his boot.  _Stay there and stay quiet,_ he mouthed.

She made another face, this time a sulky one, and bounced impatiently, not enough to rattle the desk, but enough to get her point across.  _Get him out,_ she mouthed.

_Can’t,_ Gríma mouthed back, and rose before she could protest any further.

There was always something, Éowyn thought sourly; one interruption or another to keep her from what she wanted. Well, perhaps Hama would do her the kindness of being quick.

It was soon apparent that he would not. “There are at least five soldiers whom I caught asleep tonight,” he said. “And two more not at their posts. Apparently it is now acceptable for our guards to wander off for trysts with serving girls and other wenches now – ”

“A great frustration, I’m sure,” said Gríma, his voice dripping with impatience. He tapped his foot rapidly by Éowyn’s hand, almost hitting her fingers. She bit back a curse and drew back, slapping him on the shin to stop him. He stilled at once, but remained tensed in his chair. “But do you think it necessary to write up all the reports now – ”

“While it’s fresh in my mind,” Hama said dismissively. Éowyn swallowed an irritated sigh and settled her chin on Gríma’s knee, looking up at him with large, plaintive eyes. He did his best to ignore her, biting at the end of the quill in annoyance.

“Hama,” Gríma tried again. “I’m unfortunately a bit preoccupied with other matters for the king – if you would at least consider returning in the morning – ”

“No, this needs to be done now,” Hama insisted. “Those letters to the Westfold can wait. The safety of the king cannot.”

“Perhaps you should be guarding the safety of the king instead of making reports,” Gríma said, with no small amount of reproach.

Hama seemed intent on ignoring every last thing that Gríma had to say; he barreled forward with a name despite Gríma’s protests. “Hengist, firstly – write that down,” he said. “He was the first guard I found asleep…”

Éowyn wondered if it was like this for Gríma all the time – fighting for attention, having his every word ignored in favor of someone else’s important business. It must drive him mad, to be shunted aside so often. She shifted her chin so that it was resting further up Gríma’s thigh, lifting her hand and tracing patterns up and down his leg. It started out of boredom; but she realized soon enough that it had a rather different effect. Gríma’s breath hitched and caught in his throat, and he stiffened almost at once.

Éowyn smirked broadly up at him from his lap at the sight. He cast her a look that threatened her with death and hellfire; but that was hardly enough to deter a Shieldmaiden as fierce as she. Her smirk only widened as she traced a path up one thigh and down another, teasing and taunting. He was biting down hard on his lip now, scribbling so ferociously on the parchment that Éowyn thought he might actually break the tip of the quill.

She grinned, and thought,  _Perhaps I can make that happen._

Slowly, still teasing, she walked all five of her fingers up his thigh, tapping lightly across the fabric of his breeches. Hama was saying something about Hengist’s responsibility to keep all of his men awake at all costs, including himself; Gríma was dutifully attempting to copy, biting his lip so hard that bright spots of blood were starting to appear on his lips.

_Time to ease some of that tension, then._

When her fingers found and curled around him, hard and eager and ready, Gríma gave a startled gasp so loud that Hama stopped mid-sentence. “Something the matter?” he said, all concern and kindness now that something had interrupted him.

“No, no, just – ” Éowyn watched Grima’s throat bob as he swallowed again, hard, almost choking on a moan. “It’s nothing. Just a little pain in the arm. You know, it takes so long for these injuries to heal.”

“Ah, but of course,” Hama said. “But you’ll still be able to write, yes?”

“I – suppose I can –  _hnn._ ” Grima’s breath caught again, and he looked down at her with huge, near-panicked eyes. She arched a brow at him and insolently stroked him again, sending a rippling shudder through him.  _I’ve waited months for this,_ she wanted to say. _No doorward and his reports are going to stop me. Best settle back and enjoy it._

Gríma let out a breath, long and slow, and managed to focus his eyes on Hama. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice finally even. “Just – let me get another quill. I seem to have broken this one.”

Éowyn beamed.  _Victory._

Gríma ducked down just long enough to grab another quill; Éowyn grinned at him as he straightened again. She continued to stroke him, watching him in amusement as he did everything in his power to keep his expression blank. He was failing spectacularly; even more so when she quickened her pace.

Gríma cleared his throat and settled the quill against the parchment, ink at the ready. “Please,” he said, motioning to Hama. If his hand shook a little more than usual, Hama must have pretended not to notice.

Hama did not continue for a few seconds; but finally he started again, a continuation of his previous droning lecture. Gríma was doing his best to stay focused, it seemed; he kept his eyes on the parchment before him, trying to write in a steady hand.

Well, Valar forbid Gríma sit through so tedious a report without some small measure of entertainment. Smirking broadly, Éowyn moved forward on her knees, pulling herself directly between Gríma’s legs, and lightly rolled her tongue up from the base of his cock to the tip.

If he had reacted strongly before, it was nothing compared to the sound he made at that particular moment. His fingers scraped across the desk, and he lurched forward, spitting out a curse.

“Is the pain so great?” Hama asked, alarmed.

“Yes, yes it is,” Gríma said through tightly gritted teeth, drawing his free hand off the top of the desk and tangling it in Éowyn’s hair. He was none too gentle when he pulled her forward, and he drew in so great a breath when her mouth closed over him that Éowyn half-feared Hama would come around to see what precisely was the matter. “I’m sure it will pass.”

Hama hesitated. “Perhaps I should send for a healer,” he suggested.

“No!” Gríma’s voice was rough with alarm, fraying at the edges as he spoke. Éowyn would have smirked, if her mouth had not been otherwise preoccupied. She sucked lightly, swirling her tongue, and Gríma slammed his good fist down onto the desk with force enough to snap a quill in half. “No,” he repeated, his voice even more ragged than before. “Just – just give me a moment – it will pass, I just – from all the writing, you know. Hand cramps and – ” He stopped with a curse, bowing his head and gasping again.

She could, she supposed, show mercy on him, but where was the fun in that? She sucked again, a little harder this time, swirling her tongue more rapidly, and closed her fingers around his length, stroking him once more. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, long and low and hardly pained at all. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated, clenching his teeth and forcing himself to look up. “Just – talk.  _Quickly._ ”

“Right, yes, of course,” said Hama. “Well – ”

Éowyn’s tongue was moving more rapidly now, her hand keeping pace. If Gríma could maintain any kind of composure through this, Éowyn thought, he could lie his way out of anything.

She could feel his legs trembling on either side of her, the muscles in his stomach tensing with each wave of pleasure as it took him. His breath hitched over and over again, quietly enough that Hama did not pause again. He had so tight a hold on the chair with his free hand that Éowyn momentarily feared he might break off its arm; he tugged on it especially hard when she slid her tongue over a spot that pleased him most. She took note of the gesture and came back to those sweet spots, time and time again, until Gríma was a trembling mess in his chair, sweating desperately. Occasionally he would run his tongue over his lips, more often with each passing moment.

Hama must have been uncomfortable looking at Gríma; Éowyn thought she could hear his boots, pacing back and forth across the stone floor. She wondered what exactly he would do if he discovered her here; but she was not troubled enough to stop. Gríma was warm and hard in her mouth, and the desperate, smothered cries that were beginning to escape him were sending strange and wonderful sensations all through her body.

“… I think that’s the last of them,” Hama said. “How is your hand?”

Gríma let the quill fall atop the desk, settling back his chair. His knuckles were white on the chair’s arm, the wood creaking under the strain his hand was putting upon it. “Still painful,” he rasped, “But it will pass. Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Work, right.” Hama’s boots shuffled towards the door. “I hope your hand improves.”

“Thank you,” Gríma said shortly. “Good night.”

“Er… good night, my lord.”

The door closed, and Gríma let out a shaky breath. In an instant he had his hand in her hair again, pulling her out from under the desk. She gave an indignant exclamation, stumbling up onto his lap and falling against him.

“You,” he growled, staring hungrily into her face. She had never seen him look so wolfish before – a predator ready to devour her at any moment. “You have misbehaved most spectacularly, princess.”

Éowyn bit her lip and arched a brow. “Do you think so? You  _have_ kept me waiting an awfully long time. Surely you do not think it too grievous an offense?”

He leaned towards her, staring straight into her eyes. His hand was heavy on the small of her back, his fingers tracing listless patterns over her skin where the laces of her gown hung loose. “I think,” he murmured, “That you ought to be punished for such behavior.”

“Oooh,” Éowyn said, smirking. It was getting harder to catch her breath; his fingers were sweeping lower, tracing the curve of her spine and leaving electric lines in their wake. “And how do you intend to do that, precisely? You will not find me remorseful.”

He smiled – not a kindly smile, but a dangerous one, all thin-pressed lips and glittering eyes and the smallest flash of teeth. “We’ll see,” he replied.

In an instant he’d gathered her up in his arms and lifted her out of the chair. He set her down none too gently right in front of the desk, almost instantly turning her around and bending her over the smooth, polished wood surface. Éowyn gasped and started to voice a half-hearted protest, but his hands were on her hips now, tugging at her skirts; and he was pressed so close to her, every inch of him rigid against her skin. She whimpered and squirmed against him, eliciting a sharp hiss of breath from him. He eased himself away from her an inch or two – and Éowyn nearly protested that as well, until his hand slipped between her legs. From the first stroke of his hand she cried out, and again for each stroke after. Sometimes she tried to bite back her cries, but her restraint was easily overridden by sensation.

She gasped when he first slipped a finger inside her; then nearly screamed when he slipped in another, curling and stroking and thrusting until she thought she would die. Her hands scraped for purchase across the desk, finally curling around the desk’s edge. Heat built and rose at her core, flaring in every nerve. She arched and pressed back into his hand, helpless, desperate, moaning with each thrust.

Suddenly he withdrew; and Éowyn, startled, sprang up and turned to face him, her face flushed. “And what, precisely, do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, grabbing for his hand again.

He snatched it back with a smirk, gently pressing the other hand onto her shoulder, pushing until she was sitting on the desk. “As you have so cruelly punished me, so let me punish you,” he said, gently pushing her thighs apart and kneeling between them.

She was about to ask precisely what he meant when he leaned forward and slid his tongue between her legs, a long, slow lick that sent her shuddering and gasping at once. She cursed, loudly, and thrust her hips forward at once, tilting her head back open-mouthed. This she had not known any man could do. He teased and pushed and taunted her tender flesh with each swirl of his tongue, his hands keeping her thighs apart. Soon her legs began to tremble under his hands, a slow tremor that rose and took her whole body. She rolled her hips time and again to give him better access to her flesh, her fingers coiled around the desk’s edge so tightly that the wood creaked and nearly snapped under the pressure.

She had thought this tension was a torment at first, for it tightened and lingered and tightened yet more until she thought she could not bear another second of it. She tremble and cursed and squirmed beneath his assault, desperate to break the tautness in her spine, in ever muscle and nerve. And when the breaking started at last it was a slow build, flares of heat that cracked in her veins like an earthquake cracks the earth, rising and roaring until at last all of the long-built tension shattered, sending her coiling in around him with a sharp scream of pleasure. It receded slowly, in tremors that shook the whole of her body, until at last it faded entirely, leaving only a warm, exhaustive glow in its wake.

She kept her head bowed over his for a long moment, still gasping, eyes closed. He reached up and tenderly stroked her cheek, tracing her open lips with his thumb; the gesture woke her from the hazy trance, and her eyes fluttered open at last. He was looking at her with something like pride, and not a little awe. “There,” he murmured, moving his thumb to draw circles on her cheek. “Better?”

Éowyn nodded, biting her lip and smiling. “That was – ” She frowned almost at once, looking up sharply at him. “But you – you haven’t – ” She blushed, and hated herself a little for being unable to say what she meant. She was not precisely a blushing virgin any longer; shouldn’t these words and phrases come easily to her now?

No matter; Gríma at least seemed to know what she meant. His smile turned wicked, a sharp upturn at one corner of his lips. “I had rather hoped you would finish what you started,” he said. He inclined his head mockingly, as if bowing to her, and said, “By your leave, of course, princess.”

He was good at playing nonchalant, but his voice was catching in his throat, and there was a tightness about his jaw that suggested he was under no small amount of strain. She smirked and leaned off the desk to him, lightly pressing her lips to his ear. “My poor counsellor,” she breathed, biting down on a smile when he shivered. “You have been so good to me, how could I say no?”

She grinned and pushed him back towards his chair, just hard enough that he stumbled when he went back. His eyes were locked on hers now, intense and hungry; and when she slid off the desk and approached him he licked his lips, a rapid flicker of his tongue, tasting the air for her.

She dropped between his knees, keeping her eyes on him, and slowly closed her mouth over him again. He tilted his head back and moaned, a low, steady moan that went on for several seconds. He cursed sharply when she circled her tongue around the head of his cock once more, gasping when she did it again and catching the back of her head with his hand, pushing her forward.

It was infinitely simpler to do this outside of the cramped quarters of the desk; more enjoyable too, as she had a much better view of his face. She had longed to see the mask he wore drawn back, and finally it was gone. Every twitch, every lick of his lips, every flutter of his eyes and every moan torn from his throat was genuine and real and  _hers_  – caused by her, made for her, belonging only to her. There was more delight in that than in anything else he might have given her.

She closed her hand around him again and listened to him gasp, feeling him tremble beneath her palm. He rolled his hips towards her, clinging to the arms of the chair, and cursed once as her hand moved, teasing at first, but then faster, in time with her tongue. She took to sucking and licking by turns, testing which pleased him more. Whenever he moaned the loudest or cried out most sharply, she repeated the action. Gríma shuddered and trembled in response, jerking his hips forward to meet her mouth and hand. A string of curses, hoarse and ragged and barely discernible beneath his gasps and moans, fell from his lips in rapid succession; then, with a final cry, he jerked forward and came, gasping her name over and over again, fingers still buried her in hair.

It was not an altogether dignified process. When he let her go, she coughed and choked, swallowing to clear the unexpected liquid from her throat. It was warm and thick and a little salty, and tasted strange on her tongue.

When Gríma had recovered enough to be sensible of the world around him, he was immediately embarrassed, dropping on the floor beside her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you, I didn’t think – ”

Éowyn cut him off with a laugh and an affectionate smile. “Don’t. It’s fine. Just… unexpected.” She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “And strange tasting.”

Gríma pressed the back of his hand to this mouth, swallowing a laugh. “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out to touch her face. “I’ll… make an attempt to warn you next time.” He frowned. “If… if you actually wish there to be a next time.”

Éowyn looked up indignantly. “Of course I do,” she said. “How could you think otherwise?”

Gríma shrugged, looking away. “Not everyone intends for these things to be repeat occurrences,” he said. “Some take what they want and go on their way.”

Éowyn tried to get him to meet her eyes, tilting her head to catch his gaze; but he would not look at her, staring determinedly at the floor. Éowyn sighed and pulled herself across the floor to him, settling comfortably in his lap and pressing her face against his chest. “Someday you will stop comparing me to  _some,_ ” she said, “And will know me for who and what I am, and what I want – which is you. Just you.”

There was a pause; but then his arms closed tightly around her, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply of her. “I hope you’re right, sweet princess,” he murmured. “I truly, truly do.”


End file.
